


Never be enough

by rip1009



Series: Requiem for a fool. His Dark Chronicles. [5]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, I exorcised some post funeral grief in my family, I'm shit with tags, Minor Character Death, Other, have some tissues handy, it starts with family drama and moves to more drama, my boy suffered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rip1009/pseuds/rip1009
Summary: In his short life, Nicolas had learned to cope with death, accept it as a fact and hide his feelings. It was easier in thought than in reality. Two times Nicolas tried to be strong.(Italic writing = action is set in the present)





	Never be enough

_It was past midnight, Sunday already. Montmartre had succumbed to sleep as Nicolas continued his walk. Here and there, small groups of youths were making their ways to their homes, some would break into song earning the angry shouts of those who wanted to rest. It made Nicolas smile recalling his mortal days when he would earn his fair share of insults and he would reciprocate with a few colorful tosses of his own._

_His steps brought him to the Rue des Abbesses, close to the Saint-Jean-de-Montmartre church. The solitude of the churches brought an eerie state of calm. Making his way inside, he took a seat letting his memories take over._

She was a frail thing my mother. Too fragile for the rough environment of Auvergne, too delicate to be the wife of the oaf my father was. She was married young, her family all too pleased to get rid of a bastard daughter. My dear father had gambled on acquiring some sort of noble statute but bastard offsprings are not blessed with titles. He bragged to whomever wanted to listen she had the blood of some Italian great family flowing through her veins. He married her, dumped her in his household and soon her belly was swollen much to my father's happiness. 

Too fragile, that's what I'd always hear, a synonym to my mother's condition. Her body was too weak for childbirth yet she faced her condition. She welcomed me on a rainy day, her limbs tired and her spirit almost broken. She wasn't allowed to name me. My father immediately exercised his authority as head of the household and named me, proclaiming his joy of finally having an heir. My mother remained a solitaire figure, tending to the house, alone with her thoughts. Her duty was to recover and produce another child as quick as possible. Her luck as short as it came to be was the doctor who told my father, again, she was too weak to be forced to bear another pregnancy too soon.

I cling to small moments I shared with her. The two of us alone, when business took my father away from home. He always claimed she was simple, cursed with some sort of silent insanity that made her stay quiet and not be part of the activities the village enjoyed. In fact, she was alone. Alone in a strange land, plucked from a home she barely considered her own and trust upon with the duties of a wife an every crude activity that came with it.

I remember she sang to me, some strange songs in a mix of Italian and French. I remember how happy she was during those moments, holding me in her arms, playing with my hair and kissing my cheeks softly.

I remember how she trembled when father would come home drunk, always ready to fight whomever would cross his path. I remember how she tried to hide in the kitchen and how he would chase her, like a small deer, hitting her until she was down, her cheek red from the slap, her lip bloodied. She bear it all, unable to escape.

I began confronting my father, standing in front of my mother whenever he tried to harm her, earning countless beatings. She screamed and cried, afraid he would harm me worse than any doctor could salvage. I'd take her hands and comfort her "He wouldn't dare kill me, I'm his heir. Imagine what that would do to his precious reputation" I tried to make her laugh, I sang to her, helping her back to her room, watching her as tiredly rested her bones, resigned to whatever fate put in her path.

After a few years, she was pregnant again. Heavy with another child, trying to help the maid around the house. The old woman took pity on her, always sending her back to rest. I would watch this woman's face and I would hear her muttering to the younger maids "she's too frail, dear one, she won't make it". For the first time in my life, I was afraid I would lose the only person I loved. It scarred me, it made me angry with God. Why her and not the brute she was forced to live and bed? I told that to the priest one day, in confession. The man understood although hearing a small boy wishing his father would die instead of his mother wasn't exactly a good mark with the Catholic faith. I didn't care if for my words I would be damned to Hell. I'd face Hell and Lucifer himself if only my mother would be sparred. 

I learned that God doesn't answer prayers and He takes to his bosom those who deserve some happiness in their lives.

My mother died in childbirth with my brother. The second pregnancy and the other miscarriages she suffered destroyed her.

My father decided to drown his misery with wine and curses. The bitch he married took his son. I gritted my teeth and pushed back my tears. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rip that black heart out of his chest and watch as he died.

I stood in my parents room after my mother was dressed and prepared for the grave. In a small bundle laid my dead brother. "You're free from this nightmare" I kissed the top of his head and climbed in the bed, pressing myself to the cold body of my mother. Even in death she was the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Dark curls, pale face, small hands. She was like a porcelain doll an ogre had broken. I told myself I wouldn't cry, that crying wouldn't do anything. My eyes filled with tears and I wrapped my arms around her, begging her to wake up. I cried to God to send her back to me. I prayed to Lucifer to take my soul and give me back my mother. I recited every prayer I knew in hopes like Lazarus, my mother would open her dark eyes and walk with me, hand in hand away from this house.

I walked with the others, watching as my mother's coffin was laid to the ground. I bit the inside of my mouth until I could taste blood and I kept biting it so I wouldn't cry.

The dead one had departed, the ones alive resumed to their activities. I was told that was life and I had to accept it and let go.

I couldn't let go to my mother. I returned that night and stood at her grave, hoping like a ghoul from the tales the other children would tale so they'd scare each other, would rise and come back to me. 

Her grave remained untouched and life followed the natural pattern.

I vowed I would never love someone like I loved my mother. I vowed I would never relive the agony of dreading the one I loved was dead.

Life would slap me in the face soon.

The night Magnus stole Lestat from our humble room, I relieved my worst dream. I tried to make sense of what I've seen and hoped Lestat was alive, that whomever had flown over the roofs hadn't harmed my loved one. I ceased to speak with the fellow actors and musicians, their simple minds already thinking I was too drunk that night and Lestat had left with someone, away from the eternal cynic that I was. 

I refused to think he had abandoned me. I refused to think he was dead.

The night he returned to us, in the theater, dressed in the finest clothes, I thought I had finally gone insane. One moment he was entertaining the crowds, the next he laid on his back, blood wetting his shirt from the gun shoot. I looked at him, touched him and my heart froze. He was cold like the dead, like my mother. I watched him rise and laugh, pretending it was a clever jest, smoke and mirrors. I had seen the wound, touched his blood. No one would believe me. Rumors about Nicolas being insane began circulating and I was soon approached by a man pretending he was Lestat's lawyer, offering me money, speaking about taking a trip to Italy and continue my musical studies, take the Marquise and help her in her last days.

I stood by Gabrielle's side. How beautiful she was even as she walked closer and closer to death's threshold. She spoke about her son, about her Lestat, she asked me about him, about us. I held her hand. She wouldn't make it to Italy. And again, Lestat showed up, asking us to leave him alone with his mother. I understood his wishes. You all know what happened next. You don't know how I was left to answer questions I didn't know how to answer and ask myself where Lestat could be. Maybe he was dead and maybe I was insane and I was speaking with his ghost. I screamed at his lawyer, explaining as much as I could that he had left. All in vain.

I returned to my apartment feeling defeated and alone. A loneliness taking over my heart and soul. I could heal this wound the only way I could.

I picked up my violin and I began playing a tune I had composed with Lestat, from something happy and serene, the melody became a haunting exploration of my emotions. Tears began rolling down my cheeks as I continued to play, feeling my heart burn from all I was living. I felt alone, I felt I had lost again, another person I care about. I was an idiot who should have put up a fight and keep Lestat in our home. I should have sensed someone would shoot him, I should have known more, I should have protected him. My fingers hurt and I felt the string had already slashed my skin, the blood smearing it. I felt like I was choking from everything I was feeling and that night I didn't care how much I drank, anything to take away my thoughts from the loss and from what an idiot I was. A fool who hadn't been able to protect the ones who he loved. Alcohol began to be too weak so I ended up in the opium dens, clouding my thoughts with the potent drug. I stopped caring, I stopped answering to calls and letters.

One night, in a drug haze I ended up near a church. I broke in and marched inside as much as my legs allowed me to move. I sank to my knees, tears flowing freely as I looked at a statue of the Virgin Mary "Please, bring them back. I know I don't deserve Your kindness, I know I don't deserve your mercy but please grant me this wish and I promise I will repent and I will accept my punishment in Hell. I beg you, take me and give them back!" I was choking from the words caught in my throat. I begged for an answer but all I got was silence.

I got up and marched back in the closest opium house I could find. My memories are a blur. I remember waking up either in a den or outside, crawling my way back to the apartment, watching as the men and women catching sight of me would whisper about the sinful lifestyle I led and how I'd end up dead and in Hell. A sinner who deserved the worst the pits of Hell had to offer. I laughed at them. I was already in Hell and my torment was never-ending.

And I would play the violin again and again, whispering Lestat's name. A routine that continued until the night the demons finally took me.

 

_I stood in the church letting these memories wash over me. It would be more than two centuries since my mother died. I let a candle burn in the church and made my way out into the night. I hope your happy mother, wherever you are. I hope you've found peace. I hope one day we will meet again. But not today nor tomorrow._

 


End file.
